


The Washing of the Water

by coffee-in-bed (littlemel)



Category: Brokeback Mountain (2005)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 01:40:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3631854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemel/pseuds/coffee-in-bed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Del mar," the stranger said, his accent shaping the words into something foreign, almost otherwordly. "From the sea."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Washing of the Water

Thinking back, Jack knows he must've been sloppy drunk -- or damn near it -- to be talking about Ennis and Brokeback to a stranger who'd likely spit in his face as soon as look at him, if the man understood a lick of English.

"I ain't seen 'im for a spell," Jack said, draining the last of his beer from the bottle. It was three summers since Brokeback, two since he made his way back to Joe Aguirre's trailer under the guise of asking after work, and Jack hadn't seen hide nor hair of Ennis Del Mar, and knew with his head, if not his heart, that it was probably better that way. "Ennis Del Mar."

"Del mar," the stranger said, his accent shaping the words into something foreign, almost otherwordly. "From the sea."

Jack snorted as he lit a cigarette. Ennis had probably never even seen the ocean, and Jack had only ever seen the Gulf, with its flat, tepid water; years ago, visiting his mama's cousins outside Houston. But he drove to the coast that night, hours and miles disappearing under the bald tires of his pickup, thinking he might find something of Ennis there.

By the time he reached the Gulf, the sky was at once dark and bright, the moon paling as the sun came up, faint stars blinking out as Jack watched. He rolled up his jeans and waded into the warm water, thinking about Ennis -- his quiet, rumbling laugh and gravelly voice; the solid, reassuring weight of him; his callused hands that tried to be gentle and never were.

Jack came down off Brokeback that summer with more than just a bruised eye; the marks on his hips took weeks to fade, but Jack's fingers knew where they'd been long after. Even now, he could find the places on his skin where Ennis had pressed hardest, the tiny crescent-shaped scar where his thumbnail had dug in, worn smoother from Jack running his own thumb over it. But then, it was as much fighting as fucking right from the start; he'd been foolish to think it could be anything more than that, in the end.

The sun finally broke over the horizon and Jack raised his hand to his eyes, shielding them from the glare off the water, and something in the way the waves caught the light almost reminded him of Ennis, almost but not quite. But the feeling was gone before he could put his finger on the whys and wherefores of it, and that reminded him more of Ennis than anything, that sense of almost having had something, his fingers closing over air, over his own empty palms.


End file.
